Arielle didn't sleep that night.
Every creak of the floorboards, every whisper of wind against the windows felt amplified— like someone was watching, just out of sight. She lay curled up on her couch, the photograph of Julien still resting on the coffee table in front of her.
The man in the café hadn't been lying. Julien had secrets buried so deep they were now clawing their way to the surface—and she had willingly chosen to dig deeper.
But now… the consequences were real.
Her phone vibrated sometime around 3:27 a.m.
> UNKNOWN NUMBER: "You shouldn't have met him."
Her blood went cold.
Another message followed almost instantly.
> "But it's too late now. You're already in the middle of this."
Arielle sat up, her hands trembling slightly as she stared at the screen. The messages disappeared before she could screenshot them. Erased. Like they had never been sent.
She swallowed hard and stood, pacing the small living room. The photograph. The messages. Julien's confession. All of it was circling in her mind like a storm she couldn't escape.
She needed help—but she didn't know who to trust anymore.
---
At 6 a.m., the city began to stir to life again. Traffic groaned in the distance, birds chirped in awkward clusters, and Arielle—sleepless and weary—made her way to her office building. She hadn't been there in days, but something told her the next step in the puzzle might be hidden in plain sight.
Julien had once told her, "People always hide what matters most close to what looks the most ordinary."
Maybe that's what he'd done too.
She entered the building, her badge barely registering at the security checkpoint. The receptionist gave her a tired smile, clearly surprised to see her.
"Morning, Miss Hale. Thought you were on leave?"
"Just tying up loose ends," she said, trying to sound casual. "Won't be long."
The elevator ride up to the 15th floor felt unusually long. The moment the doors slid open, she felt it—a strange stillness. Her office door was slightly ajar. She froze.
Someone had been here.
Carefully, she pushed the door open. Her desk looked undisturbed. But then she saw it—Julien's pen. A sleek black one with a silver clip he always kept in his pocket. It was lying on her keyboard.
And beside it… a small flash drive.
Arielle didn't go home.
She took the long route—three taxis, two crowded buses, and a half-mile walk—before finally stopping at a nondescript roadside motel on the edge of the city. The place smelled like old rain and dust, but it was the kind of place people paid in cash and didn't leave names. Exactly what she needed.
Inside, the room was dim, with peeling paint and a shaky ceiling fan spinning lazily overhead. She locked the door, drew the curtains, and collapsed onto the bed, holding her bag like a life raft.
The flash drive was still in her pocket.
She stared at the ceiling, her mind racing. Who were "they"? How deep did this go? And why was Julien involved?
She couldn't call anyone. Not yet. She needed to think. She needed answers without tipping anyone off. Her fingers fumbled for her phone, and she opened a private browser.
She typed in the name of the security company from Julien's uniform in the footage.
Falcom Private Services.
A list of links popped up—mostly boring corporate fluff. But buried halfway down was a link to a forum thread.
> "Falcom = mercenaries in suits?"
"Anyone else notice how these guys show up in conflict zones, then disappear?"
"I had a friend who worked there. Said they weren't just about 'protection'—they were about leverage. Secrets. Blackmail."
Arielle sat up straighter.
Julien had once mentioned a job he'd held before he "cleaned up." Said he worked security overseas. She hadn't pressed for details. Now, she wished she had.
She went back to the videos.
In the last file, Julien was on the phone, pacing. His voice low, anxious.
> "If she finds out what we did, it'll all fall apart."
> "Then keep her distracted," a voice on the other end replied. "You still have time. She trusts you, doesn't she?"
Julien hesitated.
> "Not anymore."
Arielle pressed pause, her hands cold.
So he'd been lying.
He'd been watching her all along—pretending to be distant, when really, he was right there in the shadows. Managing her like a project.
Was that what she was?
A liability?
A knock at the door made her heart leap.
Three short knocks. A pause. Then one more.
Exactly like someone knocking a secret code.
She froze. She hadn't told anyone she was here.
The knock came again—this time louder. More urgent.
Arielle stepped toward the door quietly, placing her ear against it.
A voice followed, low and unmistakable.
"Arielle, it's me."
Julien.
Her breath caught in her throat.
She looked at the flash drive on the table. At her shaking reflection in the motel mirror.
If she opened that door, there was no turning back.
Arielle's heart hammered as she stared at the door.
Julien's voice again, softer now—almost pleading. "Please, Arielle. I just want to talk."
She didn't respond. Her hand hovered near the door's flimsy lock. Every instinct screamed at her not to open it.
Not yet.
"Julien," she finally called through the door, her voice cold. "How did you find me?"
A pause. Then a sigh.
"I didn't. Someone left a message for me at my apartment. It said you were here. I don't know who sent it."
That only made it worse.
Arielle reached into her bag, retrieved the flash drive, and hid it under a floorboard she had loosened with the heel of her boot. If things went wrong, at least the truth wouldn't walk out the door with him.
She opened the door slowly.
Julien looked… tired. His face was unshaven, eyes red-rimmed. But it was his expression—something between shame and fear—that struck her most.
He stepped inside cautiously, and she let him. But not without locking the door behind them.
"This isn't a social visit," she said, arms crossed. "Start talking."
Julien didn't sit. He stood by the wall, as though unsure he deserved comfort.
"I know you saw the footage," he said.
"So it was you."
He nodded once.
Arielle didn't blink. "Who are you working for, Julien? Because it's not me. And clearly, it never was."
He flinched at that.
"It started before we met," he said, voice low. "I got involved with people who promised to clean up my past in exchange for favors. Simple things at first—track someone, plant a recorder. Watch. Report. Nothing violent."
She scoffed. "And I was just another assignment?"
"No," he said quickly. "You weren't. Not at first. They asked me to get close. So I did. But then… I started falling for you. I wanted out. I told them I couldn't keep doing it."
"But you did."
He swallowed hard. "They said you were connected to someone on their list. A man named Nuru Diallo. Does that name mean anything to you?"
She froze.
Nuru Diallo.
That was her mother's lawyer. The one who handled her late father's estate. She remembered seeing his name on envelopes in the attic. The same name she'd called years ago and gotten no reply.
"They think you know something," Julien continued. "Something about a fund. About land deeds your father left behind before he died. Something worth a lot of money."
"My father died when I was nine," she said, shaking her head. "He was just a school teacher."
Julien looked up. "That's what they wanted me to believe too. Until I saw the real files."
He pulled something from his coat—a folder. He slid it across the table.
Inside were scanned copies of old deeds, letters, bank transfers. Dates going back over twenty-five years. All tied to her father. Land. Property. Hidden wealth. And someone had been watching her ever since.
"They were hoping you'd stumble on it," Julien said. "And when you did, they'd take it all."
Arielle's knees felt weak. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because I was scared. And because the minute I told you… they'd come for both of us."
There was a long silence.
Then Arielle stood. "You're going to help me find out the truth. All of it. You owe me that much."
Julien didn't hesitate this time.
"I will."
But neither of them noticed the tiny red light blinking under the window. A transmitter.
Someone else was listening.
And Arielle had just become more than a liability.
She had become a threat.